By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

At the last split second, Castillo stopped himself from saying, “Yes, sir.”

“Yes, I would. Thank you.”

That’s a lie. I am not comfortable calling you Alex. I am not comfortable, period. I can’t remember the last time I felt so helpless, so much at the mercy of a situation I don’t understand and over which I have absolutely no control.

“And the Drei Hussaren is all right with you for dinner? If you have another . . . ?”

“The Drei Hussaren is fine with me,” Castillo said, as the Mercedes pulled up in front of the entrance to the restaurant.

And what would have happened if I had said, “Come to think of it, I know a very nice place just off Gumpendorferstrasse ”?

The doorman of the Drei Hussaren pulled the doors open. Kennedy and Pevsner got out, and Castillo slid across the seat and joined them.

The headwaiter was standing inside the entrance, greeted them effusively, and led them down the stairs into the dining room, and then across it and into a private dining room. There were three places set at a table that could hold eight.

I guess Inge doesn’t get to eat with the boss, either.

Glasses were produced and a waiter poured a white liquor into them.

In German, Pevsner said, “Since you have been here before, Karl, you know about the slivovitz. The management has learned the more slivovitz they can give away, the less likely their customers are to complain about the service, the size of the portions, the quality, and, most important, the size of the bill.”

Castillo knew about the plum brandy—the best came from Moldavia—and suspected that what Pevsner said was absolutely true.

He chuckled.

“Herr Barstein,” the headwaiter said, “that’s a terrible thing to say about us!”

Castillo picked up on the Barstein.

“But it’s truth. And the truth is important, isn’t it, Karl?”

“Very important,” Castillo said, picked up the glass, tipped it toward the headwaiter, said, “Prosit,” and tossed it down.

Pevsner laughed.

“Karl, one of the few things they do half decently around here is the sauerbraten. They make it with deer—venison. May I suggest that?”

“That sounds fine,” Castillo said.

“For all of us,” Pevsner ordered. “And aware I’m taking an awful chance, a dry red wine of your choice. You can leave the slivovitz.”

“Jawohl, Herr Barstein,” the headwaiter said.

After he left, Kennedy went to the door and made sure it was closed.

“Howard,” Pevsner said, “Charley is curious about how we learned he is not all the time Herr Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger.”

Kennedy chuckled,

helped himself to some more slivovitz, poured some in Castillo’s and Pevsner’s glasses, and said, “I know I really shouldn’t drink this stuff but I like it.”

Pevsner and Charley chuckled.

Kennedy looked at Castillo.

“Well, when the story came out, and Mr. Pevsner decided we should have a talk with you, we sent some people to Fulda ...”

To give me an Indian beauty mark on my forehead?